


A Condensed History of the Strange Affair of the Phantom of the Adrilankha Opera

by jenphalian



Category: Dragaera - Steven Brust, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Crossover, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1494838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenphalian/pseuds/jenphalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I took out all the character tags when I wrote the second part of this, because I'm just sort of fucking around with things and having fun. Characters? Canon? Spellings and proper traits of Houses? What are those? Piffle!</p><p>Anyway, this thing owes as much to Cleolinda's excellent Phantom of the Opera in Fifteen Minutes as it does to the beloved works of Andrew Lloyd Webber or Steven Brust. In addition, I ought to acknowledge the usefulness of the esteemed Lyorn Records wikia site. Any mistakes I've made are my own fault.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Historian Concedes to Editorial Pressure to Introduce the Text with a Preparatory Scene

**Author's Note:**

> I took out all the character tags when I wrote the second part of this, because I'm just sort of fucking around with things and having fun. Characters? Canon? Spellings and proper traits of Houses? What are those? Piffle!
> 
> Anyway, this thing owes as much to Cleolinda's excellent Phantom of the Opera in Fifteen Minutes as it does to the beloved works of Andrew Lloyd Webber or Steven Brust. In addition, I ought to acknowledge the usefulness of the esteemed Lyorn Records wikia site. Any mistakes I've made are my own fault.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish to stress that I, the author, love Paarfi perhaps a bit too too much and have always hated Raoul. No, hate is too strong a word; I dislike him. Anyway, in this prologue, a student of the esteemed historian Paarfi of Roundwood is prevailed upon to tell the story of her encounter with the Viscount of Chagnie at an auction.

Any material which requires introduction has likely been written by the wrong historian, thus requiring some defense of the publishing house’s decision and propping up of that historian’s credentials, or it is handled competently yet does not concern a matter significant enough to deserve a volume dedicated to it, or, perhaps the most vexing possibility, it has been written so poorly that without such material the reader would be unable to grasp the scope and importance. Thus are prefaces, forewards, preludes, and prologues alike most unsuitable for true works of history, as they immediately undermine the reader’s confidence in the author, events, text, or some combination of the three. It was never our intention, therefore, to include in this work an opening scene from outside of the main action, thereby permitting our own history to be thus undermined and perhaps consigned to the dustbins of scholarly regard.

Unfortunately, when we completed our research and submitted our manuscript, happily only two years past the original date fixed for publication, our editors found they were encumbered with the task of hinting very strongly that inclusion of the scene from our own lives which we described to them over dinner one night, which story convinced them to lay out an advance for the research whose fruits you now hold, would be necessary for the commercial success of the venture. We replied to their correspondence with a few words to sketch the logic about introductions and prologues summarized above, and yet they insisted that purchasers and readers of works of history have undergone a revolution and now desire, even demand, to be led gently by the hands into a work via artifice. And so we now undertake to describe the scene as briefly as possible. It is a thoroughly modern scene that will begin to introduce the reader to some props, a main location, and at least one character of our history, a scene which takes place many years after the events we are concerned with.

We will unfold the scene but briefly and attempt not to overwhelm the reader with the withering of dramatic tension that will come with the knowledge that at least one of the principal actors of this history is going to live beyond the events of said history. We remind our readers that our editors, whose task it is to take the temperature of the reading public, so to speak, and thus know more of the propriety of its inclusion than any mere historian, absolutely insisted that students of the topic would be happier for having begun with this prologue.

Thus do we begin our tale with this brief sketch of a day some several hundred years after the ending of the true story we mean to present.

#

The auction was attended by collectors and fans of history and the arts, as it consisted of fixtures and props rescued from the depths of the old Adrilankha Opera, that famous sprawling edifice on the west end of the city. Since before the Interregnum, this institution has been famous for extravagance and gilt above-ground, extensive tunnels leading to tombs and caves below, intrigue, song, dance, and of course the flock of wild chickens (which we hasten to assure the reader will be discussed in detail several chapters hence). The auction was held in what had been the main seating area of the Opera, now gutted, dim, and dusty.

I occupied a folding chair near to an old man who was seated in a wheeled chair and attended by a servant and a nurse. My eager hope was that some forgotten papers detailing the intrigues and dealings of past managers and singers in the opera would be produced for sale. I admit, reader, that I hoped for no less than the lost journals of La Celestia, the famous Dragon soprano, in order to fill in some of the details of court life during the Reign of Zerika the Second. Ah! I hear you surmise that such a find was unlikely, and yet, if those coveted journals still exist, I can think of no likelier place for them than the vaults and tombs of the Adrilankha Opera, where La Celestia sang her final aria after her exile from the Empress’ presence before dying on stage of a broken heart.

The auction proceeded with a dull lack of papers or books. Rather, the auctioneer peddled one item after another: a battered puce dragon-head from a production of Kieron the Bold and Tragic, tin prop instruments used in many productions of The Mute Flute, the five yellow dresses from the mistaken-identity farce The Lavodes Relax, and some advertisement posters that held little interest after it was revealed that the listings of singers had been removed from the lower portions due to contract negotiations that carried on for decades after the final curtain calls. Following the posters, several curtains from the proscenium itself were on offer; the smell of smoke when the trunks were opened was so strong that there could be no doubt they had hung during the time of Goodheart’s Fire.

Lot 665 of the auction was a paper-mache music box, topped with a lead figure of a Greenaeran monkey. I did not recognize it from any known opera, but the elderly gentleman next to me was very interested. When a porter carried it around the room for potential bidders to see, he straightened slightly in his seat and I noticed a gleam in his eye. He raised a trembling hand just high enough to be seen by the auctioneer.

“Every detail is exactly as she said,” he murmured. Though there were other bids for the monkey, I perceived that the gentleman was both rich and intent, a combination which rarely fails to produce the desired result. When the porter came round again, it was to hand the music box to the gentleman’s servant, who in turn placed it in the old man’s lap.

I leaned over and said, “Congratulations, sir! It is a fine piece, although I admit I do not recognize it.” He introduced himself to me as the Viscount of Chagnie and I gave him my name and house and the name of the noted historian to whom all my labor is dedicated, the Handsome and Honorable Sir Paarfi of Roundwood. Meanwhile, the auctioneer had moved on to Lot 666, a chandelier in pieces. The pieces were being rolled in by a line of dour Orca porters.

“Ah, but I nearly think you called him an historian, my lady!”

“And if I did, my lord, do you pretend to be surprised?”

“I do not need to pretend, for I admit, it does surprise me.”

“I perceive you have heard of Sir Paarfi.”

“I have.”

“Then how,” I asked, “could you express surprise to hear him spoken of as an historian? Do you express surprise when waves crash upon the beach or when the Enclouding hides the Furnace?”

“Oh no, I would not be surprised at those things. And yet—”

“And yet, my lord?”

“And yet, I had thought Paarfi to be a novelist.”

“You labor under a misapprehension.”

“I am quite certain—”

“Please, sir!”

“Yes?”

“I beg you not to finish that sentence.”

“You do not want me to say that I am certain that—”

“Because,” I broke in, “if you finish that sentence, we shall each be diminished.” The auctioneer was holding forth about the history of the chandelier, which figured in to one or another of the famous disasters to have occurred in the Adrilankha Opera. Several people were looking over their shoulders, attempting to quell the gentleman next to me (for thus I still must call him in deference to his rank, although he did not behave as one) with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“How, diminished?” he nonetheless persisted in asking.

“Why, because I will lose some considerable honor by attacking an elderly and unarmed man, and you, you will lose your head!” After I uttered the words I have had the honor to relate, three things happened at once. The first is that I stood and placed my hand upon my sword, indicating that I was prepared to follow through in case the word novelist should be uttered again. The second is that Chagnie’s servant took a step forward, perhaps intending to seek help from the white-robed nurse in distracting the old man before deadly words could be exchanged, and as he did so, he reached into a pocket of his doublet.

The third thing was caused by the auctioneer, and we must pause here while I say two words about that worthy example of the profession, after which edification the reader will be returned to the narrative already in progress.

The auctioneer, then, was dressed as a Chreotha in sensible brown leather with his hair pulled into a queue, which is hardly remarkable, but as we journey together through this scene, it is hoped that the reader will forgive the occasional remark upon seemingly unimportant yet ultimately revealing details. He was skilled in keeping up a fast-paced patter in a nasal tenor that could carry to the back of any room. His thin face and grey eyes were more in keeping with another House, however, and indeed, careful historical research has revealed that his mother’s mother was an Athyra. A careful review of the order medallions pinned to his breast might have alerted an astute observer that he was a member not only of the Auctioneers’ Guild, but also the Society for the Advancement of Sorcery and Knitting. At the moment in question, he was standing behind the six carts holding pieces of chandelier, these carts having been arrayed in an arc by the porters, who then moved off to the side of the room. His quick patter was reaching a crescendo and his arms were raised above his head.

The third thing that happened is the auctioneer’s spell. He cried out, “ILLUMINATION!” and the chandelier pieces simultaneously levitated up from their carts and began flashing bright lights in a sickening array of colors. As a result of the startling lights, many potential bidders either jumped to their feet or toppled backward. There were shouts of anger. The chandelier’s pieces floated overhead, painfully bright beams of light continuing to flash over the crowd, finally joining together in the original historic position.

The second thing that happened when the auctioneer performed his sorcery is that the old man’s servant died, the old-fashioned flashstone in his pocket having discharged as an unintended consequence of proximity to the powerful spell. The nurse screamed and backed away from the wheeled chair, holding her arms up in front of her face. Some nearby auctiongoers were shocked by this turn of events, but the auctioneer, undeterred by the chaos this auction was dissolving into, attempted to start the bidding for the chandelier at 1,000 Imperials. Most people were now on their feet, chairs toppled all over the floor, and some were pushing each other or hastening towards exits.

“Look at what you've done!” said Chagnie.

“I have done nothing! Your man seems to have been carrying a flashstone.”

“He carried it to defend me.”

“So you see, my lord, how much more effective a sword would be for such a task?” I drew mine, although the reader must understand that this was specifically to illustrate the point I was making and not out of any desire to threaten the gentleman.

“Swords! What use is a sword against the Metamorph’s Lasso?”

“The… what?”

“The Metamorph’s Lasso, the weapon of the Phantom! Ah, I should never have returned here, to this terrible place.” He bowed his head and clutched the music box tightly, seeming to curl around some secret internal pain. I might have felt sorry for him then, had he not continued. “No gentlewoman, even one who claims a novelist as a patron, would set foot in the Adrilankha Opera without knowing—”

#

History does not have room for assumptions. However, at times it is permissible, when relating a scene at which one was actually present, to draw some minor conclusions without much shame in the act. We know, then, that the reader cannot fail to indulge us when we assume that the Viscount would have mouthed some further insults had not a sword been introduced to his lying throat at that time. Members of the Phoenix Guard were eventually called in to investigate the Opera Auction Riot, as it has begun to be called, although we must stress that it hardly deserves the name, being more of a ruckus in nature. These worthies, having interviewed those present and examined all available evidence, agreed that the fatal accident which befell the Viscount of Chagnie, although tragic, was unavoidable in the midst of that melee.

Having rescued the Greenaeran monkey music box from the riot, or melee or ruckus if the reader prefers, our curiosity was aroused and we began to research the history of the item and the man who so briefly owned it. It was in the course of this research that we first uncovered dark hints of the fascinating events which we shall now, having obeyed the whims of our editors, at last begin to relate.


	2. In Which a Company of Great Merit Rehearses Kieron the Bold and Tragic and Discovers a New Soprano in Their Midst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We at last begin the tale of Cristeen, a young Tiassa opera singer, by exploring the company of which she is a part. Some things befall the company, both ominous and mundane, before they see a bit of action.

Properly, a scholarly volume ought to begin with a discussion of the background and social context of the subject, just as a great rhetorical oration must begin with an exordium before proceeding to the arguments, or a swashbuckling adventure novel, about which we assure the reader we have read several research monographs, and are thus familiar with the form of them if not the substance, must begin with a duel or thrilling sorcery or some equivalent folderol. Thus, as our work endeavors to be a scholarly volume, we shall open it by saying two words about the Nepi Opera Company, which, at the time we have the honor to begin peering in upon their lives, is in the midst of the penultimate round of rehearsals—that is, the rehearsals just prior to the dress rehearsals, which are themselves the penultimate item on the rehearsal schedule as they precede the previews, which are not technically rehearsals (nor, of course, technical rehearsals, those having been completed much earlier in the rehearsal run)—for a run of the historitragical opera, Kieron the Great and Tragic.

This opera, as the reader may already be aware, details a failed military campaign of the little-researched Kieron e’Kieron, Warlord during an Iorich reign, who may indeed have been tragic but was certainly not great, though the historian acknowledges he must be differentiated in some fashion from others of his line bearing that famous name. The opera is an esteemed classic frequently studied but rarely performed in our own time, perhaps because we have lost the glamorous traditions of theater companies that can afford to employ the highly-trained carpenters and puppeteers needful to create and operate a life-sized mechanical stage dragon. And what amusement value could audiences possibly find in a staging of Kieron without the famous dragon sequence? To be sure, a general theater audience delights in the absurdity of seeing the sweeping events of history punctuated by whimsy, without understanding the psychological reasons for their enjoyment. Thus, an opera such as “Kieron,” with the improbable enslavement-turned-love-triangle distracting the audience from the dismally incorrect interpretation of the title character's armies' march over the Kanefthali Mountains during his fateful campaign against Eastern tribes, is a spectacle of which today’s audiences are unduly robbed.

Thus for the show, but what of the company? The Nepi Opera Company, which we humbly do ourselves the honor of pointing out has never before been written about in a volume of history, consisted of a ballet corps, a chorus, an orchestra, and a number of actors and singers. In addition to all these performers, there were stagehands, costumers, servants, and, leading this motley crew, the owner, Fellbril—although, unknown to anyone yet, Fellbril has just completed the sale of the Company to a Chreotha couple, who have as their patron a very wealthy Viscount. Many of the younger members of the company, those who were least likely to be named specifically in a playbill or review, if the reader catches our meaning, actually slept and ate within the sprawling chambers of the Opera House to save on living expenses (though such an existence could barely be called “living”!) making their various ways above- and belowground through passages and stairs that the public may have been startled to learn of.

The intrigues between these worthies, their patrons, artistic masters, and families are numerous and the historian may deign to express some measure of surprise that they have not been researched and written of more fully. The diaries of the ballet corps alone—! But it would never do to say more than absolutely necessary to introduce the company before plunging ahead with the unfolding of history.

So then, we must join the rehearsing company, and as we do so, the reader will see that the ballet corps is in the midst of the cat-centaur dance at the feet of the dragon, as the music swells to a crescendo. This dance is exceedingly difficult to stage—effectively, that is—as the dancers need enough space to execute the movements with their arms that indicate the maneuvers of the cat-centaurs but must do so in exact synchronization. As the dancers twirl and glide, the puppeteers must make motions with the dragon which cause the stage-beast to seem to come closer to the action occurring on the battlefield without ever actually moving the bulk of it from its location upon and hanging above the stage, as the chorus sings the recitative song designed to indicate the alarm of the populace as Kieron’s forces approach.

As we have said, and now do ourselves the honor to repeat, it is difficult, and yet the dancers of the corps were doing credit to their chosen profession on the occasion of this rehearsal. As they danced, three people—that is, the Company’s manager and two Chreotha—entered from the wings to stand on stage, directly in the way of the dancers. Although the little group was led by M. Fellbril, the straight-backed dancing mistress did not hesitate to shoo the Company's owner and his guests to the side with her stout walking-stick before they could be kicked or stepped on by dancing feet.

“As you can see, Fermin, the Company is currently rehearsing Keiron the Great and Tragic.”

The Chreotha gentleman smiled. “We are familiar with the show; it will surely bring in good receipts.”

“Er, yes, of course,” Fellbril replied.

“By the gods, do the performers always go about armed?” asked the Chreotha lady.

“Well, Andrea, as to that—”

“Yes?”

“In a word, only the principals are permitted to be armed during rehearsals.”

“Well, I do see that there are only a few with swords.”

“Then I hope my lady feels some relief?”

“Some relief, to be sure, only—well, I am certain it is of no import.”

“Come, come, you must ask me all of your questions now, for you perceive there will be no further opportunity after today.”

“Well, it is only—”

“Yes? Only?”

“Only I do hope that the singers are not in the habit of killing each other on stage!”

“Oh no, no, of course not.”

“I had been led to believe, you understand, that some singers can be a bit hot-tempered and even prone to rivalries.”

“In that regard, madam, you have not been misled.”

“And yet…” Andrea gestured toward a singer openly armed on stage.

“Ah. I believe that now I understand your concern, but I beg you not to trouble yourself over it. You see, I have strictly forbidden duels during rehearsals.”

“I see.” The lady did not seem entirely enthusiastic about this reassurance. Madame Giere, the singing and dancing mistress, was by this time glaring at the three of them, and under the force of this look their conversation naturally ceased. The music had meanwhile continued.

Just as the crescendo of anticipation is reached, the opera directs the breathless attention of the audience, through tricks of lighting and choreography, to the lead soprano. In this production, the role was sung by Carlotta e’Celestia, none other than the armed lady who had caused distress to the new Chreotha owners of the Company. She stepped into her light now to sing, as there is barely a pause between the end of the cat-centaur dance and the beginning of the aria titled _Think For Me_. It is a heartfelt plea from the woman at the center of the love-triangle, begging her former lover to make decisions for her (indeed, for all three of the principals) with regard to her new betrothed’s flight from unjust persecution and the important imperial papers necessary for such flight, whose location is hinted at but not shown until the final act of the opera. Her betrothed’s flight is made urgent by the arrival of Kieron’s armies, but she does not wish to choose between her lovers, and, adding dramatic irony to the situation, Kieron has secret orders to execute them all for war crimes.

At the beginning of the eighth verse, barely halfway through this aria, during which the reader must understand the dragon is still and unlit, the large lower jaw of the beast suddenly crashed down upon the stage. Musicians stood to crane their necks for a better view, the director and dancing mistress rushed forward, the chorus and dancers all screamed from their spots lounging at the edges of the stage, and loudest of all was Carlotta e’Celestia herself. Carlotta was tall and stocky, with the noble’s point and prominent chin which mark the House of the Dragon, and she ordinarily was quite haughty. Her rehearsal outfit of silver and black was of much finer cut and material than those of the chorus and dancers.

Now she pointed up at the broken dragon head and screamed again, for hanging off of each of the dragon’s large upper fangs were thick black ropes tied into nooses.

“It is the phantom!” cried Ben Giere, a dancer. He was shushed by his mother, the dancing mistress, but to no avail. Other young members of the company took up the cry.

“The ghost!”

“He is here!”

“The phantom haunts us!”

“Will you please have a little courtesy!” thundered Piangi e’Celestia, leading tenor of the company, as he rushed to the aid of Carlotta, his mistress. The reader will doubtless be aware of the custom of Dragon opera singers to take the name e’Celestia as a mark of honor, regardless of their family line. “Madam, are you injured?” he asked Carlotta, who responded shrilly but in the negative.

“What is happening here? What is the meaning of this?” asked Fellbril, leading his Chreotha companions into the midst of the fray.

“Sir, it is the ghost! The phantom is here!” Ben and a chorus girl, Cristeen, rushed forward, pointing up towards the black nooses even as stagehands swarmed up to cut them down.

Fellbril turned to the others with a dry chuckle. “The phantom. Bah.” He motioned with his fingers as if to throw away the word. “It is a little joke, you understand, among the young members of the company.”

“But it is no joke, Sir,” said Ben, but the three had passed him to speak with the Dragon singers.

“Carlotta, what has happened?” asked Fellbril. The soprano was flushed with anger and gestured widely toward the piece of the dragon being carried away by stagehands. Piangi stood next to her, a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“This set piece—haunted! The show—haunted! The metamorph phantom will kill us all, and what will you do—nothing!” She poked a finger at his chest to punctuate this speech. “And who are these… these persons that you drag around on my stage?”

“So good of you to ask,” replied Fellbril. “Everyone!” Here he held up a hand and shouted to gain everyone’s attention. “Nepians, friends, I know that there have been some rumors of my imminent retirement. I am now pleased to confirm the truth of these rumors and introduce you all to the new owners and managers of the Nepi Opera Company—Lord Fermin and Lady Andrea, Baron and Baroness Webbern!” With this, the little man bowed deeply, stepped back, pushed the Chreotha forward, and then made a speedy exit while the Company crowded close, pelting these worthies with questions.

“Will there be raises?”

“What about new dancing shoes?”

“We need a luthier!”

It was Mme. Giere, however, that garnered their attention. She rapped her stick on the ground and all fell silent. “I am pleased to welcome you,” she said. “As is the Phantom. He would wish me to remind you that his salary is due on the first of each month, and Box Seventeen is to be kept empty strictly for his use.”

“Cracks and shards, madam!” responded Fermin.

“You cannot be serious!” cried Andrea, at the same time.

“Entirely,” she assured them.

“You see? You see?” Carlotta was becoming increasingly agitated. “The Phantom is real, and he will keep playing these tricks—”

“Come now, my dear one, my cupcake,” Piangi tried to soothe her, but she shook him off.

“Surely these little accidents happen from time to time, Madame,” said Fermin.

“These things do happen,” she agreed. “But unless you stop these things from happening, this thing will not happen!” She gestured defiantly around at the stage, tore a copy of the libretto from the hand of a nearby chorus boy, and threw it to the floor.

“Then you will not sing?” asked Andrea.

“I will not.”

“But the opera!”

“Rid us of the Phantom, I will sing, the opera will happen.”

“Your role is one of the leads! We must have someone to sing the part.”

“No one else can sing it for you.” Carlotta crossed her arms and looked haughtily at them, in the manner common to celebrated performers and Dragonlords in general, but best performed by those who are both.

“I can sing the part,” came a clear feminine voice from stage left. It was the chorus girl, Cristeen, standing next to her friend Ben. “I’ve been practicing.” Her shining yellow hair curled thickly around her shoulders, and she was dressed in a shade of blue that matched her eyes.

“Let her sing for you! She has been well-taught,” added Mme Giere.

Andrea and Fermin looked at each other, then at Cristeen, and may have been on the verge of calling for an introductory bar from the orchestra master, but the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn stopped them.

“No. I will not allow the child to sing.” Carlotta swished her sword through the air and everyone jumped back.

“I do not think it is for you to permit or no,” said Mme Giere, leaning on her stick. “Cristeen, come here.” With a little push from Ben, Cristeen stepped forward.

“Get back,” said Carlotta, pointing with her sword.

“I know the part,” Cristeen insisted.

“You will not sing it while I breathe, I swear it!”

“Not while you breathe?”

“Have I not said so?”

“Quite.”

“And so?”

“And so I find myself lacking.”

Carlotta sniffed once and nodded. “So you are.”

“Lacking a sword, that is! Come, friends, who will lend me a blade?” Those around them gasped and drew back, leaving them circling each other.

“Ladies, please!” shouted Fermin.

“Really,” said Andrea. “First our lead soprano tries to quit, and now a swordfight. What have we gotten ourselves into?”

“Monsieur Fellbril was quite clear that he has forbidden dueling during rehearsal,” Fermin announced.

“That is so, he did forbid it,” said Cristeen.

“It is a shame Fellbril is no longer in charge,” said Mme Giere, giving the head of her walking stick a twist and drawing out a sword, which she handed to Cristeen.

The conversation between singers was quick and hot. Cristeen struck first, attacking high, while Carlotta parried, turning away her opponent's blade. As they traded blows, Fermin remarked ironically to Mme. Giere that it did indeed seem as though the Tiassa singer had been well-taught. "Of course, swordplay is an excellent workout for the young people," she replied. "Good for their lungs. Cristeen is only 120 years, and look how light she is on her feet."

"What an extraordinary young woman!" Another man had stepped onto the stage, greeting the new owners as one would greet friends, just in time to see the beginning of the fight. He was richly dressed, in the style of a Tiassa. He continued, "the Dragon has the reach on her, but she is so fast that it seems hardly to matter! What is the quarrel?"

Mme Giere answered him, sketching the details briefly.

"I see. Might I inquire whether the lady is attached to anyone?"

"Indeed not, my lord, she is alone in this world since her father's untimely demise."

"Then she is an orphan?"

"Yes."

"I see. And quite beautiful as well."

The old lady nodded. "Quite. She is like a daughter to me, you understand."

"I think I understand you perfectly, Madame—oh, but I nearly think that was a touch!" Indeed, the youthful singer had proven herself in the contest, slashing open a wound on the Dragon's arm. Those gathered around clapped madly and it was clear that she had won the right to try for the part.

Afterward, Cristeen sang a mere half-dozen verses from the first act’s _Ballad For the Dashing Hero_. Carlotta stormed out of the theater, followed by Piangi, while the Nepians toasted their new soprano.


End file.
